Coming Home
by TheSirensSong218
Summary: DM/HG Rebuilding your world when everything you've ever known and believed in has betrayed you is hard at the best of times. Why not throw in falling for someone who loathes you?


The rolling hills and greens of the pastures outside were blurred by the steady fall of rain. The sound of speeding train and rain on roof formed a white noise hush that muffled the sounds of students in the other compartments, in the hall, etc. It wasn't cold today, but Hermione felt cold.

She turned away from the darkening sky and retrieved a book from her bag: _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_. The cover was a deep, solid green, the lettering gold. She knew the height and breadth of it, the weight of it consisted of 16 chapters spread over 237 pages. She knew the life's story of the author, Miranda Goshawk, who, thanks to Voldemort, would never write another book again. The one thing she didn't know was one goddamned word it said.

The book fell open to the page she'd left off. Page 63. Apparently she was in chapter 4. _The Transfiguration of Base Elements_. It depressed her thoroughly that she only vaguely knwq to what that was referring.

"It is important to remember that deciphering the essence of the transfiguration is a two part process. One must not simply..."

 _I wonder how Harry and Ron's meeting is going._

Anxiety pierced her.

 _God I miss them, already._

All light had gone out of the sky by this point and the pelting rain seemed to smash against the window.

There was no other course of action. She would finish her final year of schooling before she joined Harry and Ron at the ministry. Their world was changing and she was already a part of that change. Despite her unfinished N.E.W.T.S., she was already on a reform committee with the Ministry. She had Kingsley to thank for that.

 _Minister Kingsley,_ she corrected with a smile.

But it was not enough. They would clear the blood-hate from the books of history and never again allow their government, their county, their people to do this to each other again.

They would follow Dumbledore's example and build their nation anew, to be a stronger, better place, built on principles of equality, justice, and fairness. And she would be part of that change, was already a part of this great reform. No, she did not doubt her path, but that did not make it any easier to tread alone.

"Once you have identified the element you have and the element you need, the process becomes much more straightforward," she read allowed, her mind refocusing on the reading. She'd missed that entire chapter. What page was this? 77.

 _Fuck._

With equal parts disgust and relief, she threw the book back into her bag and pulled it closed as the squeal of the breaks signaled their approach to their destination. The tightness in her chest squeezed harder and she took several deep breaths to ease it.

 _I can do this. I am strong and smart and capable. I will overcome my challenges and I will make my world a better place. I believe this. I know this to be true._

 _So why do I_ feel _like I'm lying to myself?_

The door to the next compartment over opened abruptly and Draco could feel himself twitch.

 _The first of the four is the quaffle. It's large and round and red._

Despite knowing it had to be coming, he jumped even harder when it slammed closed again.

 _The second and third are the bludgers. They'll beat you bloody or dead._

He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He hated being cooped up. He stretched and turned, knowing there was nowhere to move to and unable to remain still just the same.

He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the ends, appreciating the sting of the sharp tug as it cleared his mind. For exactly one moment. Then he felt another sting that had become all too familiar to him, and yet was just as mortifying as ever.

He blinked rapidly, feeling more caged than ever. He felt like he might explode.

 _Why did I come back here? Why did I think this was a good idea._

 _I know it's not a good idea. It's a horrible fucking idea. You wanted normalcy but does this feel fucking normal to you?_

Faces flashed before his eyes, succumbing to smoke and flame. The blistering heat and choking smoke. They horrendous piles of burning... everything.

With a wild gasp, he turned to the door. It didn't matter if he had to jump, he was getting out of this box and off this fucking train. The door slid open as if by his will alone and it was then that he noticed the food cart blocking his exit.

"Are you hungry, dear?"

He stopped short with a sigh that felt like it might deflate his entire being. She was still here. He looked at her. Actually looked at her and thought it was the same woman who had always done this job. But he couldn't be sure. She was shorter than him. Gray hair, dark eyes. She was smiling, but he could see the traces there. He didn't need to know what she looked like before, to see them. Her smile faded and her eyes turned quizzical. How long had it been since she'd spoken?

"Er, yeah."

He glanced at the food cart and didn't see anything remotely appealing. It had always seemed so before. Another change. Seconds passed and it started to happen again. What he was seeing was becoming clearer in a manner directly correlated to his own inability to process it. Bright yellows and reds, greens and purples, lettering of every size and style, circles, and squares, liquids and solids. It was too bright and meant nothing. He could smell with sickening sweetness the juice in the pitcher she was holding. The lights from the hall intensified and fractured, splintering into shards that pierced him.

"I'll just take this," he blurted, his hand shooting out and grabbing whatever it landed on. He practically threw money at her, not even looking as he did so and closed the door when she protested that it was too much.

It was too much. All of this was too much. It was too warm in here. He dropped his already forgotten haul onto the seat and took his robes and shirt off, pressing his head to the cool glass of the window. He was sweating, and panting, and he knew if he didn't calm the fuck down, he was going to lose it.

 _It can't just be the people. Please, don't let it just be the people. The people are gone. They're gone or their different. You're different. Literally nothing is the same. And if you do find something, anything that is, do you think you can possibly enjoy it?_

"There is nothing left of me," he said into the window, his breath fogging the glass.

He felt some small measure of relief, if you could call it that, when the squeal of the breaks sounded and the train began to slow. Frustration washed threw him. It had taken bloody long enough. And yet, he found himself trying to reconcile the simultaneous notions that he'd both just gotten on the train minutes ago and that he had lived and died an age here.

 _Get it together_ , he thought as he reached for his shirt, wiping the now cold sweat from his face. His eyes glanced over his left forearm as he retrieved his garments and he noticed the hated lines beginning to come back..

He did not want to start this way. Would not start this way. And so, he pulled his wand from his pocket, applied it to the skin, and remained unflinching as the tip traced a line through his flesh. He didn't even have to think the word any more. Intention alone was enough. There was no way to remove the dark mark from one's flesh once it had been seared into it.

 _And if the the mark could not come out of the flesh, the flesh could come out of the arm_ , he thought as the top several layers of his skin separated from his forearm and the blood began to run down his arm. Another wave and the wound stopped bleeding. And yet it never seemed to close, either. With grim satisfaction, the only satisfaction he knew any more, he repositioned his sleeve and prepared to join his fellow students for his 7th and final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


End file.
